Mime Your Own Business

Once upon a time I was absolutely sure that I should go to school to be a massage therapist. I got all the information, contacted the school, made googly eyes at Sallie Mae for a student loan and lined everything up, and then, I realized something: I have an absolutely paralyzing fear of women's thighs. I find them terrifying, and, after double checking with the massage instructors that thighs were on the massage menu, ran screaming away from that life direction. =silently pretends to sprint across the living room while checking behind her to make sure no thighs are in pursuit=

About 2 years ago, I began courses to become a childbirth educator & doula with a long term interest in midwifery. I must that I thoroughly enjoyed the experience and seemed to have found something that suited my rather specific area of life experience: procreating. However, about a week ago I had an epiphany: I have an absolutely paralyzing fear of women's thighs (sound familiar?). Now, why this didn't occur to me earlier I don't know. I have spent the last week trying to see if there any midwifes doing c-sections instead of the other route (which is smack dab in the middle of the thighs for any of you who haven't made the connection yet), but evidently this is highly frowned upon. Go figure. =silently pretends to deliver a baby with eyes closed and as if from a great distance away=

So I am selling all my textbooks, coursework and birth aids on ebay, and have decided to join the circus.

My original plan was to become a trapeze artist but the only practice trapeze I could find was from those kinky sex shops and I kept smashing into walls. Besides, truth is that I am not at all flexible and evidently the ability to touch one's toes is highly prized in trapeze artists. =silently attempts to touch toes and instead falls over into a non existent puddle of water=

So then I decided to become a trampolinist like those little bouncy kids in Japan. But unfortunately the only trampoline my apartment complex would let me have was one of those little living room rebounding ones. I have learned that the hard way that the only way anyone will pay to watch someone jump on a miniature trampoline is if you take your bra off. Won't fall for that twice! =silently realizes that she's been had and pretends to stomp off and slam a non existent but really heavy door=

I might have to give up joining the circus as I don't want to grow a beard, and Michael said he would smother me in my sleep if I keep pantomiming things =silently puts hands to cheeks and looks really, really, really alarmed=

Look Busy! Jesus Is Coming!

So it occurs to me this evening that not a great deal has occurred to me lately. I blame the swiftly approaching summertime heat and the impending end of the world. I suppose though that we should not necessarily stop all day to day activities while awaiting the apocalypse, and this entire train of thought reminds me of the bumper sticker that says "Look Busy! Jesus Is Coming!". =snort, snort, snort= (that's me laughing while eating M&Ms that I'm picking up from the floor with my toes. Now if I could only actually get the foot to my mouth and cut out the hand motion entirely then I would surely win an award for efficiency.............. Dexter left them on the floor, thank you for asking and making unmerited judgments about my housekeeping).

So Obama has clinched the nomination but Hillary is still in denial (see my previous post). I don't see how they could possibly not place her as the VP on his ticket. The entire election process has lost its appeal to me this go 'round, although I have to admit that I still find Obama disturbing (antichrist), and possibly (antichrist) a figure (antichrist) whose true character (antichrist) is yet to be fully revealed (antichrist). There's something under the surface (antivenom - ha you thought I had mindlessly typed antichrist again). Oh, and for any Obama zombies about to complain about my antichrist reference, just hush up. You don't believe in the antichrist anyway, so it's kind of like me calling your candidate the king gummy bear and master of ceremonies at the jedi knight's annual BBQ. In other words, a label that you can't necessarily object to as it is completely without context in your world. So meh, Obama zombie, now be gone.... go practice swooning.

Now for some random thoughts, aggressively grouped together in one paragraph. Langdon had a very good birthday. He is now officially "a whole hand". Dexter is without a doubt the most insanely male child ever birthed, made evident in bouts of attempts to beat us into submission, and then aggressively kiss us until we run away screaming. He is a child of extremes including acts of random destruction and mindless consumption - we find him highly amusing. Summer is very excited about her 13th birthday and is determined to have a 3 tier cake decorated in flowers and Transformers. I do not know where to find an Optimus Prime cake topper but I'm sure I'll figure it out by her birthday or she'll post on myspace that we failed her as parents and that no one understands her. Again. Lily is an extraordinarily gentle and loving human being who far surpasses me in maternal instincts and patience; she is also highly repetitive, but I don't know if she could surpass me in that. I mean I really don't know if she can overtake me in the ability to repeat the same thing over and over again. Because I just don' t know if that's possible. Mackenzie has grown a booty this year and is traumatized by it. She's the only one in the family to have a butt, and she finds it disconcerting, almost as if something is following her. I suppose all the junk in the trunk jokes don't help.

Pop Psychology Goes POOF

I must admit on the forefront of this discussion that I have never much subscribed to the pop psychology phenomenon. The self help movement experienced its heyday in the 90's and seems to have since relegated itself to overpriced, recycled "books" in pretentious bookstores, thriving on a much lower key with a small but loyal remnant of followers. Actually I believe it reinvented its persona and attached a bunch of new age hippie crap from the 70's and is growing among yuppies but that's another discussion. Let's keep to the one at hand, shall we? You're so hard to keep on track. Focus here people. We're talking bubble gum psychiatry here. You know the stuff.... a bunch of evangelical know nothings jumped the bandwagon and branched off to create their own version? Aw, I see you're with me. So, um, are you a sanguine? EXACTLY. Shame on you.

Now, it occurred to me the other night, why pop psychology was a failure. It all comes down to black holes in space. Stop looking at me like that. It makes you look stoopid. Now, pop psychology, like black holes, grew so fast that it imploded on itself unable to support the heavy masses of needy people seeking to all fix substantially different problems with the same band-aid, which, of course, always fails, Just ask FEMA, but the straw that broke the camel's back was simply this: the concept of DENIAL.

Now, I believe that cosmic conversation went something like so (this is a dramatic re-encactment and I can't be held liable for the accuracy because I was zoned out on Prozac when it all took place). By the way, the following transcript is best read with a Richard Hammondesqe British accent. Really, it is. Truly. Just try it. Now, on we go:

You: I think you have a problem and it is affecting our relationship. I finished reading my self help book from Barnes & Nobles and its description of your personality type and how it affects people around you, namely me, is both alarming and disheartening. We really have to deal with this. Together.

Me: I don't have any problem. I am eating a sandwich. If you read a book and came to the conclusion that there is a problem then it is your problem as I am, I repeat, innocently sitting here eating a sandwich.

You: Exactly. That's exactly what it said you would say. That is was my problem.

Me: But it is your problem, as I had no idea there was any problem until you arrived here spouting garbage about "our" problem, which was only "your" problem until you came here and announced it as "my" problem. Previous to your dire announcement, my only problem was that I had to pick the mold off my bread for my sandwich, which really was my sandwich's problem if you want to get technical.

You: So you're denying there's a problem.............. just like the book said. You're in denial. And shut up about your *&%$*%&# sandwich.

Me: I am not either in denial. And do you kiss your mother with that mouth?

You: Now you're denying being in denial! This is terrible! Much worse than I thought! And it just shows how little you know me because I don't kiss my mother! The last book I read enlightened me as to how her failure to bake halfway decent cookies was a blatant attack on my sexual development and I ended all contact. Now, back to the issue at hand.....

Me: I am not either denying being in denial because I'm not in denial! And what in the bloody hell does cookies have to do with puberty anyway? I mean, reaaaaally, how did they draw that connection?

You: Now you're trying to avoid the issue! You know what??? Knock! Knock!

Me: What? What are you babbling on about now? What is the matter with ............ oh, fine. (sigh) Who's there?

You: Cleopatra.

Me: Oh, for pity's sake. Cleopatra who?

You: Cleopatra, Queen of DENIAL! (sob, sob)! Why can't you admit that y0u're in denial?!?

...........and so the circle began of armchair psychologist analyzing all of their peers and common relationships with poorly defined random "problems", and when their diagnosis was rejected the rebuttal was immediately "You're in denial". This blatant abuse of a what was supposed to be a last resort cop out, er, approach destroyed the foundations of what was supposed to be a massive shift toward the generalized enlightenment of modern society. And thusly pop psychology imploded on itself, taking with it about 64% of legal marriages and the mental well being of countless casualties of underage children who couldn't for the life of them figure out why their parents divorced over a *&%$*%&# moldy sandwich.

I have no doubt that a great many people will disagree with me, but all I can say is that they are obviously in DENIAL about the whole situation. And if you disagree with that, then all I can say is that you are in denial about being in denial, which is terribly sad.

:)

Pomeranians & Piercings

This year for my birthday I am going to pierce my nose. Why, yes, I AM serious. For no other reason than I like tiny, little shiny things. Kind of like a bird who is willing to get run over on the freeway in exchange for a sequin. It also has significant personal meaning for me, but there's no point in trying to explain how an additional hole in a body part that already has 2 can hold biblical relevance.

I am also going to save up and buy an annoying, yapping miniature furball that can wear obnoxious sweaters and be called things like "pookie". Yes, I AM saying this with a straight face. I am going to save up for a mini Pomeranian, although I doubt I can afford a true micro and will instead have to get a purse/pocket size. More's the pity......... the micro ones are truly the most irritatingly cute. They actually make me throw up a little in my mouth they are so kawaii. Perhaps I'll commit true cute suicide and name it Bijou and teach it to potty in the toilet, and buying it little carpeted steps so it can sit on my bed and shed.

Michael is none too pleased with either of these developments, but in true Michael fashion has approved my pursuit of idiocy in hopes that I get sidetracked before July. The odds are in his favor actually. I have wandered off the clear path of many grand pursuits because I saw something shiny and became, figuratively speaking, of course, roadkill on the busy freeway of life.

This project will from henceforth be known as the Furball Fund and I highly recommend donating large sums of money to it. My family can donate to the cause because they find it highly amusing to complicate Michael's life with his wife's shenanigans (they had to put up with it for years after all), and his family can donate to it because an annoying, needy little dog almost guarantees that I won't have a reproductive relapse and try to procreate. Again. Note the "veiled" threat here.

And, no, I am NOT using up my Midlife Crisis. Believe me, you can write my current behavior off to possible just sheer stupidity, but when I have my midlife meltdown, you won't be able to mistake it for anything else.

Take Your House Plant To Vote Day

It's been awhile, hasn't it? I am undertaking a project, aptly entitled "Therapy for Thirty" that is analyzing and reconstructing weak points of my life from the top down. For those who have lost track, I am turning 30 this year, and I refuse to arrive at my thirtieth birthday with the same set of problems I had in my twenties. I plan on creating a whole new set of problems.

We are also currently struggling through a situation with the retarded girl next door. Granted, she is not technically retarded, but I think that if you spent any time with her at all you might feel less inclined to complain about such a politically incorrect moniker. She is trying to "become" part of our family by inserting herself into our life each and every night and I am just about to reach my breaking point. She's quite dreadful, and I think God is punishing me for something (and it must be something absolutely horrible to merit something like this). I keep trying to tell myself that it is an opportunity for us as a family to learn empathy and how to work through socially difficult situations in casual relationships. Unfortunately it is not working out. The younger girls are polite certainly, but Summer finds her repulsive to the max and has decided to start a blog entitled "Wisdom & Wit From The Retarded Girl Next Door". Michael vetoed it, of course, but I'm considering an override. I mean, some of the things that verbally vomit themselves out of this girls mouth really need to be recorded for posterity. Including the lie (and an odd lie that it was) brought forth this weekend that she was voted the most "Christ"like Basketball Player. Because Jesus was always up for a little one on one.... what? You didn't know that? You are an idiot. You see what I mean? Retarded.

Today is Super Tuesday, which is far more exciting for me than the Super Bowl by far. In fact, it only stands second to the actual election day and when politicians get publicly charged with tapping their feet at other "patrons" in public bathrooms. I also am rather keen on "Talk Like A Pirate Day" (my youngest son was born on that day!) and "Take Your House Plant For A Walk" day.

Dear Neighbors,

Dear Neighbors,

Now I consider myself a patient person in most respects. I am a mother of 5 and all of them have (so far) survived long enough to be counted in a general census. However, I have my limits and you pushed those this morning. Allow me to explain a few things about America that the border patrol immigration office seems to have forgotten to tell you when you snuck over the border with 112 of your buddies arrived here:

1. Americans are politically correct enough to pretend not to notice that you are here illegally and bleeding the life blood out of our government as long as you do not get cocky and start messing with us. You seem to have forgotten this. You should remember, very quickly.
2. Polka music is freaking retarded and so are you.
3. Having pictures of the virgin Mary in your car does not make me any more likely to miss you if I decide to shoot your retarded self & your stereo. I know this, because she is also a woman who once had a sleeping baby, and if your dumb asses had decided to blare polka music in the parking lot of Bethlehem at 6AM in the morning, she would have sent Joseph out to nail your ding dongs to the nearest utility pole. And she would have been justified in doing so, so how's that for sinless existence, you dweezilbots?
   
4. You are stupid. I hate you.
   
5. The movie Kill Bill has set a precedent for stalking down people who deserve to perish in dreadful ways and enacting such atrocities sans conscience. While Kill Pedro, or Kill Mario or even Kill Juan, for that matter, would probably be less appealing at the box office, I believe that the general concept holds and I have a video camera.

Anyway, consider yourselves warned (as IF you speak or write English). If you ever blare your crappy polka music at 6AM outside my apartment again, while laughing hysterically, I will........ TELL ON YOU. Yes, that's right. I will call the police for you disturbing the peace. I will call the office 3-4 times a day and complain every single time you so much as flush your toilet. I will call immigration and tell them you once said "jihad". I will call your mother and tell her that she is ugly and that she dresses you funny. I will call the Pope and tell him that he's ugly and dresses funny. I will haunt you until you run screaming back from whence you came with all your polka cds stapled to your ass.

Smoochies.